


Gyre

by Exxact (orphan_account)



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Bottom Aziraphale (Good Omens), Eating Disorder Not Otherwise Specified, Eventual Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Infidelity, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Mention of Age Gap Relationship, Mention of guns, Mentioned Past Drug Use, Mentioned Suicidal Ideation, Multi, Power Bottom Aziraphale (Good Omens), Recovery from Emotional Abuse, Unhealthy Relationships, Virginity Kink, failing marriage
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-26
Updated: 2019-12-10
Packaged: 2020-10-28 23:26:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20786792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Exxact
Summary: Gabriel has never wanted anything for as long as Aziraphale has known him.Logically, of course, that statement is not true.  But from Aziraphale’s perspective, want and need are a distinction carved by his childhood and solidified by his time with Mr. Fell.  Gabriel needs three smartphones, his morning run, and a husband smiling beside him—they all serve many purposes beyond what they offer a casual eye.  No, it is Aziraphale who wants, who orders dessert, who browses shops more intently than he does his grant proposals.  Gabriel has never known a hunger he didn’t create for himself, while Aziraphale knows all too well what starvation truly is.“Just get in the elevator, Aziraphale,” Gabriel says after the agonizing drive ends and the latest wave of nausea ebbs, and so Aziraphale does, reaching for Gabriel’s arm without hesitation.If Gabriel tenses beneath his grip, then Aziraphale is too far gone to care.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Please heed the tags. I've tried to tag for everything relevant to the entire fic, but I will note if the tags change at the start of the chapter where they will take effect.

“Aziraphale, you’re pouting again. I hate it. Stop.”

Eight years of marriage and a pair of startling violet eyes don’t give Gabriel the ability to see in the dark, yet Aziraphale still finds himself relaxing his mouth, wincing again when the silver Lexus swerves to avoid a motor bike.

“What is it now? You have five packages waiting on our doorstep, drained your own charity’s budget a week into the month, and just gorged yourself in front of my clients. What more could you possibly want, Aziraphale?”

“Gabriel, darling,” Aziraphale manages tightly, lowering the window. He receives a lungful of smog and a coughing fit for his efforts. “Pull over, please.”

“‘Pull over, please,’” Gabriel mimics, ignorant to the sheen of sweat coating Aziraphale’s face and how frantically he undoes his seatbelt. “Not a chance. I’m on the M25, sunshine. You’d know that if you learned to drive.”

“Please, dear,” Aziraphale babbles, Gabriel’s farmer’s market tote bag just out of reach in the backseat. “You’re being terribly—oh!”

For all that Aziraphale has managed to expand Arch’s charitable foundation, court two new clients for its parent company in the past hour, and not punch Michael and Uriel once during his years of knowing them both, Aziraphale has never been skilled at aiming.

“Fuck, Aziraphale. Really?”

His name echoes behind Aziraphale’s closed eyes, over and over. _Aziraphale. Aziraphale. Aziraphale._

_And to think I used to make fun of Crowley for that silly nickname._

+++

Gabriel has never wanted anything for as long as Aziraphale has known him.

Logically, of course, that statement is not true. But from Aziraphale’s perspective, _want_ and _need_ are a distinction carved by his childhood and solidified by his time with Mr. Fell. Gabriel _needs_ three smartphones, his morning run, and a husband smiling beside him—they all serve many purposes beyond what they offer a casual eye. No, it is Aziraphale who _wants_, who orders dessert, who browses shops more intently than he does his grant proposals. Gabriel has never known a hunger he didn’t create for himself, while Aziraphale knows all too well what starvation truly is.

“Just get in the elevator, Aziraphale,” Gabriel says after the agonizing drive ends and the latest wave of nausea ebbs, and so Aziraphale does, reaching for Gabriel’s arm without hesitation.

If Gabriel tenses beneath his grip, then Aziraphale is too far gone to care.

“Are you angry?” Aziraphale manages, and Gabriel’s eyes (nothing like them, not in the wide world he’s shown Aziraphale, from Japan to Mauritius) are frozen, as though he’s forgotten to blink.

“Yeah, Aziraphale, I’m angry. But I love you, so go shower,” Gabriel finally replies, his voice fading into defeat, kicking the four (not five, but why did the seller need to package each volume individually?) boxes into the coat rack after he’s unlocked the door, not even bothering to swear at them.

“_You’re a hoarder, but at least you’re a cute one_,” he’d said once, kissing Aziraphale’s head as he’d unwrapped a second tea service for their flat in Boston, which he couldn’t help but be disappointed in, even with the marriage laws what they were in London at the time. “_Just keep those biscuit crumbs out of bed tonight, hmm_?”

Aziraphale rises on shaky legs, deciding that a bath may be less efficient but more comfortable. He looks over his shoulder, where Gabriel’s body brackets the entrance to the kitchen, resembling nothing more than a football player blocking a goal at one of Arch’s Saturday recreational events. Tension spirals from his posture, silently answering Aziraphale’s next question:

_“Would you care to join me?”_

Though he struggles not to convulse as he undresses, Aziraphale manages to hold himself together until he’s submerged in the bath. His shivering has just begun to calm when he hears the two beeps of the treadmill that signal its activation. Aziraphale grits his teeth against the noise, idle eyes catching against the clock as he begins to wash himself. 11:49 PM—a perfect example of why they’d bought out the entire top floor, careful to keep Gabriel’s equipment on the edge of the building above the well-insulated stairwell.

The surface of the water breaks and silence surrounds him as Aziraphale wets his hair to wash, careful to keep his eyes shut. The thudding of Gabriel’s feet isn’t as intense in their bedroom, and so Aziraphale finishes quickly, tying his robe around himself as he walks back to the kitchen, frowning at the sight of the spoon in the half-empty mayonnaise jar resting in the sink. If Aziraphale had heard the frantic clatter of the spoon against glass before Gabriel had begun on the treadmill, then he carefully pretends he has not.

Too exhausted to make himself tea, Aziraphale settles for a glass of tepid water and a sleeve of Saltines before retreating to the soft darkness of the bedroom, slowly eating while flipping through the stack of magazines beside the bed.

“Arch Gives! A Bimonthly Look Into the International Charity Sensation! (Sponsored by Arch, Inc.)”

The sight of his own smiling face framed by a golf course nearly startles Aziraphale into dropping his crackers. He digs for another magazine, but there are only copies of the same promotional material, the same confused hope in his eyes.

Yes, everything Gabriel needs is sheerly that—everything in his life has a purpose, a stage set for it, a role it is inserted into, and Aziraphale knows that he is no different. Putting his crackers and water aside, Aziraphale curls into the familiar scent of Gabriel’s pillow and tries to content himself in the knowledge that he is one of the few material objects worthy of his orbit.

+++

For all that the wide world beyond London offers, Aziraphale utterly hates the process of getting to it.

First, there was the packing. Gabriel insisted upon doing both of theirs himself, never once allowing the task to fall to Aziraphale or the rotating series of interns he hired and fired every few months. He recalls trying to help the first few times, assuring Gabriel that the headrest and blanket and earbuds he’d used on the arrival flight were every bit as safe to use for the returning one.

_“Bacteria, Aziraphale. Do you really want MRSA on top of everything else we have to deal with?”_

_“We always fly first class, darling, and I’ve never sat beside anyone but you and the window. They must keep it quite spotless for the prices you mention alone.”_

_“You trust them calling it ‘first class’? Marketing. Look, just throw it all out and buy new ones. You like buying things, right?”_

Aziraphale had woken up too late this morning to snatch up his purchases, and so his out-of-print prophecies written by that Darwin cult in 1974 (bought on Amazon, likely fake, but worth the cost of trying) would have to remain unboxed until their next trip to London—two months from now.

Gabriel hears his sigh of frustration, offering him a clap on the shoulder, a nip of his earlobe. “Come on, up. Just gotta get to the airport, then you have it easy.”

Aziraphale spends the time between dressing and riding to the airport in their hired car alternately fretting over postage costs and being unable to eat for the next twelve or so hours while smelling every delightful breakfast item under the sun. He’s far too tired to feel anything but vague apprehension at the thought of flying until the familiar eruption of sounds descends upon him when the car parks along the shuttle ramp.

“Go to the bathroom and take your pills. I’ll check the bags.”

Aziraphale does so, shaking hands taking his passport and boarding pass from Gabriel once he’s returned to the lobby.

“Darling, will you go first? I never remember what to keep on or take off for these silly screening detector gadgets.”

Gabriel’s silence is his assent, and Aziraphale knows his nervous chattering won’t draw forth any comfort beyond it. Instead, as he always does when composure is required, he thinks of his mother, of the blinding light of her smile if she’d known her son would live as she’d always wanted him to.

‘Eden Fell’ was an utterly preposterous name, though it made more sense once one met Aziraphale’s mother. She’d always been an eccentric, his uncle told him —one of his more generous comments regarding her. Unpredictable, right up until her death, when she’d left a shellshocked fifteen year old boy on a bookshop’s front door to a man he’d never been introduced to. “_Your mother wasn’t the kind of woman you should remember_,” he told Ezra Fell (“_Aziraphale, please. That’s what she called me_”), pouring them both a glass of wine. “_Lived ugly, died ugly, for all that she was beautiful. Charm—that’s what gets them in the end_.”

“Name?”

“Az—Ezra Fell—well, Ezra Cielo, that’s it. Married name, you know.”

“You’re a U.S. citizen?”

“Yes—I live in America now. Just here for a business visit.”

“At least you didn’t tell them the bookshop’s address this time,” Gabriel says once he’s managed to tie his shoes and slip his jacket back on, letting out a pathetic noise at the way his stomach tightens with nausea when he stands back up.

“You have excellent hearing, dear.”

“I have to,” Gabriel shrugs, leading them towards the lounge (and those tempting cashews and olives, no less). “Can’t have you sneaking chocolate muffins into our shopping cart these days.”

“Those were yours! I watched you put them in our trolley!”

“I wouldn’t sully our_ cart_ with that trash, Aziraphale. You know that.”

“Yes, my dear,” Aziraphale replies without hesitation, settling into the heated chair beside Gabriel, cursing himself again for only bringing the American road trip guide he’d bought Gabriel last year for his birthday that had made its way out from under the bed this morning.

The medication slowly warms Aziraphale, clouding the sense of urgency he feels to run, to find space away from the clumps of people and luggage about to scale thousands of unnatural feet upwards. No, Gabriel is here, sturdy and holding his arm while they wait to board, taking his book and carry-on from his hands, the steady thumping of their feet in the jet bridge echoing as Gabriel’s running had the night prior.

Aziraphale chuckles as he always does when the flight attendant offers him pajamas, pointing him in the direction of the washroom._ Mama would have called me a liar_, he thinks, struggling to unbutton his waistcoat, _but wouldn’t she just have asked for a pair herself as proof_!

Returning to their row in socked feet, Gabriel looks up from his tablet long enough to hand Aziraphale his earplugs and eye mask, giving Aziraphale’s folded clothing a pleased hum that deepens when he sees Aziraphale snatching up the complimentary gift bags. They had plenty of toiletries back in Boston, of course, yet there was something indescribably special about the neat little packets, the sleek black packaging of lip balm, deodorant, hand creams.

“Aziraphale, you’re fidgeting. Just go to sleep.”

Fumbling to slip on his earplugs and mask, Aziraphale thinks of when Crowley had told him that nighttime was the only time he felt any measure of peace, that he’d rather sleep during the day when everything was garish and bright, even beneath his sunglasses. Aziraphale had been puzzled at first, though he recalls agreeing that reading at night was indeed enjoyable, if difficult when Intimate Retreats was having a hoedown on those select Saturday nights.

Sighing, Aziraphale closes his eyes against the black silk, pressing his face against Gabriel’s collar and imagining the dulled roar of the plane’s engine is that of a Bentley.

+++

“You ordered Chinese food delivery at 7 AM? What is wrong with you, Aziraphale?”

Aziraphale hurriedly thanks the worker and hangs up, avoiding Gabriel’s eyes. They’re impossible to look at when he’s angry—as though dignity itself is ashamed of him.

“We just traveled across the world for twelve hours, darling. You shouldn’t have to make us breakfast afterwards!”

“Yes, _you_ should be cooking, Sleeping Beauty, but you smother everything with butter or set off the smoke alarms, so I have to do it!”

Aziraphale fiddles with the phone in his hands, debating taking another dose of his medication. “Please, Gabriel. Stay home with me today. We’ll eat, rest for a time, and later, perhaps we could…” Aziraphale lets his eyes flicker up from beneath his lashes, “enjoy ourselves?”

“Stay home with you? I’m the CEO of my own company and you’re in charge of its offshoot. We don’t get _days off_! That’s the brakes when you don’t want to live in shit!”

Aziraphale clutches the edge of the counter to steady himself against the weight of the words he is about to speak. “You’re hurting yourself, darling, the way you treat your body! I haven’t wanted to say anything, but it’s—it’s been like this for years and it’s ridiculous and it’s scaring me! You barely sleep, never relax, and only drink those horrid protein shakes unless we’re at a function! I know you’ve been hiding crisps under the bathroom sink, and I—“

“Shut your stupid mouth, Aziraphale!” Gabriel roars, slamming his hands down, the counter shaking. “I’m not skipping work to eat shitty fortune cookies and stare at the TV with you! The hell are you, a junkie?”

The word burns more than it cuts, splattering across Aziraphale’s face like vinegar. His mother’s hands drag him away from the bundle of sweaters in the alley, tells their latest tenant to be packed up in thirty minutes or he’ll be damn sorry.

_“Been off it three years now, angel. Just hurts more in the end than it’s worth.”_

Gabriel walks past Aziraphale towards the bathroom, ignoring the quiver of his mouth. _My stupid mouth._

“Be ready in an hour. I’ll get Michael to drive us.”

Aziraphale nods, the last warmth of the medication leaving him limp and vulnerable against the countertop.

+++

Three hours later, tucked back in his office, Aziraphale is replying to thank-you notes (a task that should have fallen to his secretary) when his desk phone rings once, twice, and then an unprecedented third time.

Unlike his employees at Arch Gives, Aziraphale maintains both a corded desk phone and a smartphone. Despite Michael’s pointed comments and Gabriel’s utter confusion, letting go of it, like selling the books his uncle had also left him, is unthinkable. But in all the time he’s had it, both in London and Boston, it has never rung before.

“Hello, Arch Gives. This is Mr. Ezra Cielo speaking.”

“‘Ziraphale. Angel.”

Aziraphale is too stunned to conceal his gasp. “Crowley?”

“Saw you this morning—evening? Morning for us, 5 AM. Drove you to the airport.”

Aziraphale can barely breathe, let alone answer coherently. “You drove Gabriel and I to the airport?”

“Yeah. Drunk. Well—didn’t drive drunk. Been drunk since my shift ended—morning there, isn’t it? Timezones, all that.”

“But that was you who drove us…oh, Crowley!”

“Yeah, was me. Did it as a favor for Bee, that motherfucker—too good at poker. Had to cover their shift.”

The ringing in Aziraphale’s ears dulls enough so that he can hear the rush of traffic, the wind whipping violently against the phone on Crowley’s end.

“You aren’t—oh, Crowley, you aren’t about to do anything horrible, are you?”

“Bottle of wine before I pitch myself into the Thames seems smart as anything I’ve ever done. ‘Cept known you. Loved you. Always loved you, but you knew that.”

“No!” Aziraphale shouts, rushing for his jacket until the cord of the phone pulls him back towards his desk. “Crowley, please, listen to me! I’m going to the airport, and I’ll book the first flight they have—anything! Please, Crowley, just wait for me until then.”

“You’re happy with him. Real looker, at least. Bet he can’t get enough of my angel.”

“No! No! Oh, Crowley—I need to be there. Let me help you!”

There is a long pause, the sound of sunglasses opening and Crowley putting them on.

“Never could say no to you.”

+++

_Inevitable_. The word pops into Aziraphale’s thoughts as he hurries past the interns, the janitor, Michael and Sandaphon, all at work, all half a world away from where Airaphale’s mind has already flown to. He hails a cab, seeing Crowley in the shine of auburn in the driver’s ponytail, in the glint of black polish on the fingernails of the young woman across the street who covers her mouth in a laugh as he scrambles inside it.

Crowley’s summons was inevitable. The thread spun between them twelve years ago is worn but true, formed over the course of five dates and a handful of kisses.

_Inevitable_. Gabriel’s anger, concern, and derision for what Aziraphale is about to do is inevitable, the fabric of their marriage fraying with just a tug upon this thread so thin, Gabriel has never thought to notice it.

The guilt Aziraphale feels as he pays his cab fare and rushes into the airport is inevitable. He has no desire to hurt Gabriel, of course, yet a hurt within him opened, long denied, with the slap of his concern disregarded.

_Inevitable_. The complete control Gabriel came to exact over his needed objects was inevitable.

“Ah, good morning. One ticket to London, please. The first flight available, any class will do—it’s quite an emergency.”

“Sir, this is the line for the security checkpoint. Haven’t you flown before?”

Only eight years into their marriage did Aziraphale think to question the worth of the inevitable.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note the changes in tags and pairings. While weapons will be discussed briefly in this fic, none of the characters will wield one.

_London, Twelve Years Prior_

At 28, Aziraphale knows that most young men are dreaming of the world beyond London, planning families, and/or resenting their parents for not helping them when they dropped out of uni following a string of startups that started up at bars on wild nights. 

Aziraphale wants to fall in love.

Living in Soho and working across the street from a shop called “Intimate Retreats Adult Wares and Sundries”, one can’t help but overhear how a man of his persuasion might go about doing so. Even if the shop’s American Wild West theme is decidedly inaccurate, Aziraphale knows that, if one hears of the same place time and again, it must produce results.

_The Lush and Bruise._

It’s a cold Friday night in the middle of November when Aziraphale finally decides to close the shop early, taking a brief nap before walking down the streets he’s heard mentioned in passing. His mood, bolstered by the lack of attention his presence receives in the crowds, immediately drops when he sees his destination. 

A man and a woman huddle together beside the steps of the darkened bar, only a meter or so from a dumpster. While Aziraphale may have been invisible to the swell of people in the streets, he hears several ugly words directed towards them that make him back away from it, drawing closer to the couple.

Noticing Aziraphale, the man’s expression retreats into meekness, his anger barely concealed. He says something pleading in a language Aziraphale is unfamiliar with, though the state of the pair’s clothing and the shape of the woman’s belly through her jacket transcends the need for verbal understanding.

"'_Do not forget to entertain strangers, for by so doing some have unwittingly entertained angels_,'” his mother would say when the shapes in the alley would manifest in front of their door, though she’d just as soon shut it in their faces as offer them a meal.

Aziraphale, however, cannot even imagine refusing these two help. He withdraws his wallet, pressing the fifty pounds in it into the man’s shaking hand.

“Here. Please, take it. Find somewhere warm—especially with her expecting.”

The man looks at him with a profound, uncertain expression as he accepts Aziraphale’s offering. He nods once he has taken it, clutching the money and the woman tightly, bracing her against the wind.

“Oi, move it, you wankers!” a tall man shouts, whacking the snow off of the railing until they take off into the darkness. “Asking for handouts when we need ‘em ourselves. What’s your name, dolly?”

The man’s eyes are nearly black, his breath rancid, his hair unwashed. “Az—Aziraphale.”

The man grins, dragging Aziraphale inside the bar before he can look backwards. “Mouthful, isn't it? Bet you’re a little mouthful yourself, hmm?” 

Aziraphale huffs in disgust, unable to turn away before the man’s clamped a hand onto his bottom.

“Bugger off, Hastur. Groping this poor bastard won’t get Ligur’s attention—not with the shipment due in tomorrow night. Ball python morphs, whatever that means.”

Hastur’s hand drops and he shuffles away without protest, brooding gaze catching on a man with a shocking orange mohawk that’s bent over a pool table with—a chameleon on it? 

“Thank you,” Aziraphale murmurs, looking behind him for his savior, who happens to be as strikingly appealing as Hastur had been unappealing—leather jacket, sunglasses, tousled auburn hair, legs that make Aziraphale regret every crepe he’s ever eaten. “I—well—I rather—“

The man watches him, his expression intent yet lacking the predatory want that had just plagued him. He gestures to the bar, taking a seat beside Aziraphale. “You need a drink, huh?”

“I—well—I don’t have any money to buy anything with. I gave it all away.”

“You what?"

“I gave it away. To the young couple sitting outside. It’s dreadfully cold, and she’s clearly expecting, and I—,” Aziraphale babbles, unable to look into the man’s eyes, though they remained covered. “I would have hoped that someone would have done the same for my own mother.”

The man’s head falls forward in shock until his eyes show above his sunglasses. His pupils are slitted like a snake’s, narrow and sharp against bright amber irises, and Aziraphale nearly shouts with concern.

“Your eyes! Oh, we should take you to a—“

“No need, angel. Born with ‘em. Bilateral coloboma.” 

_Angel_. Aziraphale knows that he should tell the man off for such an advance, but the soft, low purr of it causes him to waggle a bit in his seat. He peers forward to disguise it, leaning in to examine the subject in question without considering that the person they re attached to is, in fact, a person rather than an antique book. “I think they’re captivating,” he breathes after a moment. “Unique. Mr.—?”

“Crowley. Anthony J. Dagon—glass of wine for this one, the usual for me.” 

Aziraphale tries to smile. “No relation to Aleister, I’d imagine.”

Crowley lets out a chuff of breath, but there is a spark of amusement in his expression. “None, but try telling that to the church families I pass on my way to the shops after work.”

“I would, truly! It’s not something you can help!”

Shaking his head, Crowley thanks the bartender and downs his shotglass. “You need to get out of here. I’ll give you the bus fare. Not a place for you now, much less later.” 

Aziraphale frowns, a desperate edge to his voice. “Well, where else am I supposed to meet gentlemen of a certain _persuasion_? And what about my wine?”

“You’re too good for this lot,” he hisses, gesturing around the bar and then to himself. “Angel in a glory hole flat, that’s what I think.” Another look at Aziraphale, and he’s shrugging on his jacket. “Bloody hell—I’ll bring you home myself before you meet someone really _unique_.”

Crowley grabs Aziraphale’s arm, though the gesture has none of Hastur’s greed behind it. Aziraphale lets out a surprised laugh, grasping Crowley’s elbow properly, searching his face for any hint of joy or disgust.

“C’mon. Don’t want to lose you in the snowdrifts—can’t believe it bloody snowed in London this early. Blessing for the shop, hell on my tires.”

Crowley lets go of his arm, sidling up to a sleek vintage car, stroking the top of the hood while he watches Aziraphale get in. When he slides in to the driver’s seat, he looks utterly pleased with himself in a way that sends blood to places Aziraphale would prefer to ignore at the moment.

“You have a lovely car. I don’t have the stomach for driving—oh, I have nightmares about hitting some poor pedestrian!”

Crowley makes another amused sound, more choked than the one he’d made before. “Worrier, aren’t you?” he mutters, starting the car and whacking the radio until the music is a dull roar rather than a guitar solo to wake the dead.

“‘The shop’, you said,” Aziraphale tries, aware that his time with Crowley is running out. “I own a shop as well! I inherited it from my uncle—yes, just go straight for a moment, then I should be able to direct you to it.”

“I don’t own it, angel. Stupid flatmate does—the bastard who felt you up.”

“Oh, ah, yes. ‘Hastur', as it was. Ah, turn left here. It should be down this street, and then a right.”

Crowley snorts. “Hastur. The very one.”

Though Crowley’s driving is nothing short of atrocious, Aziraphale manages to sit mostly still, fiddling with his handkerchief until their drive is over. 

“Well, I suppose this is goodbye. Thank you for your kindness, Crowley.”

“Goodnight, angel.” 

Aziraphale nods, smiling tightly. He closes the door of the car behind him, and is halfway to his own door when he reaches for his handkerchief to no avail.

A terrible shame, he thinks, a laugh bubbling up once he’s certain the car is out of sight.

+++

With the help of a group of jet-lagged but sympathetic college students, Aziraphale manages to use his laptop to order and print a ticket for himself on the next direct flight to London—departing fourteen hours and thirteen minutes from the time of his purchase.

Fourteen hours from now! Crowley might be—oh, it didn’t bear considering! Aziraphale clasps and unclasps his hands as he makes his way to the lounge, dropping his passport in the process. The weight of his briefcase when he sets it down reminds him that he’s only brought his laptop, and that a landline offered no way to call Crowley back. And with phone books out of fashion…truly, all of this was doomed!

“Back so soon, Mr. Cielo?” the unfamiliar man (“Raven Sable“—well, to be fair, he’s never quite been himself by this point while traveling) asks, scanning Aziraphale’s ticket. 

“My dear, do you know if there are any other passengers headed to London that have checked in? I need to try to get on an earlier flight. It’s _terribly_ important…”

Sable smiles, wide and false. “We’re not supposed to allow that, but you did get through security, and you’re a valued customer. Let’s see—Tiara’s doing boarding and they won’t care, either. We can help you out if you can switch tickets with someone in the lounge, but customs is your funeral.”

“Oh, bless you! Do you know who here is headed to London?”

“Well, there’s that ambassador’s parents—shit, not supposed to mention them. Uh, younger woman in the green plaid coat? Round glasses, over there with the olives. Anna something?”

“Anathema Device,” the woman tells Aziraphale when he rushes over to speak with her, too desperate to care about the frown creasing her face. 

“Yes, I’m Azira-Ezr-Aziraphale. I’m Aziraphale.”

The frown deepens. “Aziraphale. The one from Arch. Aziraphale Cielo.”

Aziraphale’s grin is frantic rather than charming. “Yes, the very one. Now, I’m very sorry to impose, but I need to buy your ticket. it’s very, very important.”

“Don’t you have a private jet or something?"

“Gabriel said that those are for new money and men with something to hide.”

Anathema rolls her eyes. “Well, not my problem.”

“Please, Miss Device. It’s a very urgent matter.”

Anathema rises from her seat, her face set with a cold fury that recalls Gabriel’s earlier this morning. “I’m sure it is. A real _crisis_. You know, just like the gun crisis in this country? The one your pig husband is supplying?”

“Well, there’s no need for that sort of language!”

“‘Arch Gives’?”, Anathema spits, her glass of olives seconds from being shattered onto the floor. “What kind of sick joke is that, anyway—a weapons manufacturing company with a _charity branch_?”

Aziraphale, carrying the weight of one who agrees with his detractors, feels the tears heavy in his eyes. Sandalphon took care of public relations when he wasn’t refitting Aziraphale’s budgeting, though he’d accidentally been forwarded enough emails from Michael to have spent more than one evening after work tucked in bed with a tube of cookie dough and a bottle of wine.

“_They lend weight to a moral argument_,” Gabriel had explained, his eyes wide, pleading more beautifully than anything Aziraphale had seen before. “_I know that England has them banned, but America_—_it’s_ different, _Aziraphale_.” 

Swallowing, Aziraphale summons more of Gabriel’s words. “Arch only produces hunting rifles, Miss Device. And crossbows. For—well, not for the caliber of people who would use them inappropriately.”

“Like you won’t start selling _inappropriate_ ones in a year or two!”

Aziraphale stutters for a moment, wide-eyed, because, in fact, Anathema was correct. Two months from now, he and Gabriel were to have lunch with the American ambassador’s family in London. Apparently, Thaddeus Dowling had a distinct interest in seeing his preferred brand carry handguns.

“You can’t know how desperately I need—“

Anathema rises from her seat. “I’ve been planning this trip since graduation last year! I barely got my mom not to implant a tracker in me. You’re insane! And why would the airline even let you try this?”

“Please, Miss Device,” Aziraphale tries again, holding out his ticket. “It’s the same flight, just fourteen hours from now! Here, I can even offer you something in—“

“Unless Arch suddenly started selling historical property, I’m not interested in your blood money.”

Aziraphale closes his eyes, lets Crowley’s purr of a voice warm the chill that’s seeped into his veins. “I do, actually. Own property—well, my husband does. It was my uncle’s. A.Z. Fell and Co.—it dates back to 1800.”

“You can’t be fucking serious.” 

“I am, truly! Here, let me give you my contact information, and you can just—“

Anathema shoves her ticket at him, letting Aziraphale’s own fall to the floor. “Look, here. Take the ticket and get the hell away from me.” She walks to the entrance of the lounge, her bag under her arm. “Yeah, Hell—that’s exactly where you and that slimy asshole are going!” 

Aziraphale manages to dab his tears away long enough to see his new boarding time—ten minutes from now.

“Thank you, Miss Device!” he shouts, hurrying towards the line beginning to form, nearly slipping on his old ticket as he does so. 

+++

Sandalphon, of course, is the first one to know what has happened. Without any of Gabriel’s easy handsomeness or the idiot he married’s sweet vulnerability, he has developed the ability to disappear, to observe and analyze people without the distraction of his physical form. His value lies in his subtlety, in the sagging weight of his jaw weighing upon his already weak chin, his only defining feature the gold fillings he’s had since he was a teenager, running his tongue across them as he’d fulfilled Peter Cielo’s catalogue orders. 

A day never goes by without Sandalphon recalling where Arch had started, what he and Peter and Gabriel have spent their lives risking and slowly reaping the rewards of. He’d watched Gabriel grow from an infant to a strong-headed man with all the pride his mother had missed, the slip of a thing dying as Michaela had come into the world. Even now, five years into the affair, he cannot imagine tiring of Gabriel’s quick laugh, his iron grip, or those violet eyes worshiping him while his mouth is around his cock.

It is that bond just as much as it is Arch’s reputation that leads Sandalphon to wait outside, watching the bright-haired driver glide her taxi past him before chasing it down to take care of Aziraphale’s latest mistake.

Sandalphon hails the cab as he walks, though the woman seems to have already guessed his intentions, rolling down her window. Her hair is a striking red, more flame than auburn, and her face against it is pinched and too fine-boned for her occupation. 

A good service industry worker, she waits for him to speak first. “A man hightailed it out of here and got into your cab earlier. Ezra Cielo—blonde hair, British accent.”

“Yes, he wanted to go to the airport,” she says with a pert smile. “I don’t usually narc on customers, but I grew up with your products. I keep my dad’s under here.” A nod to the passenger seat, and her smile widens. “He looked like he was up to something, all right.” 

Sandalphon raises his brows, as though in high regard. “The airport?”

“That he did. Big hurry, too.”

Sandalphon smiles as blandly as he can, slipping her a twenty-dollar bill and his business card. “Anything else you hear or see of him would be very, very helpful for us to know about.”

“Whatever you say, sir.”

+++

Recalling the beginning of his journey years later, Aziraphale will be unable to describe just how arduous it had been to sit still for precisely six hours and thirty minutes with nothing to do but attempt sleep. Too afraid of stumbling about when he arrived, Aziraphale had chosen not to take his medication, his body erupting in panic when he felt the plane take off and ascend. The rest of the flight had dragged painfully by, interrupted twice by fits of vomiting brought on first by an attempt at reading and then by his desperation for a cup of tea. 

Aziraphale is light-headed with relief when the plane lands, a surge of energy (and Tiara, that miraculously slippery flight attendant) carrying him through customs and into the main body of the airport. After waving goodbye, Aziraphale finds himself walking towards the international baggage claim before he can think to do anything else. 

One sees quite the array of humans at an airport, and someone sleeping on a bench holding a dozen Amazon lilies beside a baggage claim is hardly out of the ordinary. However, for a near-delirious Aziraphale, the slumped form is not sleeping, but, regardless of a pair of twitching legs, a sign that he has arrived too late.

“Crowley! Oh, Crowley, my dear—I came, just as I promised!” 

Crowley stirs, his hand coming up to draw his sunglasses down the bridge of his nose. His eyes, though red and bloodshot, are so wrenchingly familiar that Aziraphale has to sit down beside him.

“Angel,” Crowley mutters after a long moment, blinking several times before walking off towards the chip stand across the way, Aziraphale only a step behind.

+++

_London, Twelve Years Prior_

Aziraphale hears Crowley long before he sees him, the music he’s blaring managing to overpower that of Intimate Retreats next door (though certain other noises are decidedly still audible).

“Crowley,” he breathes, a hand coming to adjust his bowtie before he rushes to meet him, watching Crowley lope out of his car from the front door, yellow eyes wild in the semidarkness. “I was just closing up shop,” he calls out unconvincingly. “Would you—I could keep it open, if you’d like to browse for a half-hour or so.”

Crowley’s posture stiffens. “Bit late to be closing. Nearly midnight, by my watch.” He leans forward over the hood of the Bentley, drumming his fingers on the surface. “And I’m not interested in books, Aziraphale. Or in keeping this.”

Aziraphale blushes at the sight of his handkerchief being withdrawn from Crowley’s back pocket. He offers it, and Aziraphale darts forward, clutching it tightly to keep him from rushing back inside, overwhelmed by his joy and fear.

“_A handkerchief_,” Crowley would muse a week later, stroking Aziraphale’s cowlick back into place when the wind on the hill mussed it. “_Really, angel, you’re some kind of time-traveler. Little Victorian gentleman, sharing a flask of tea with me in that bowtie of yours. Never met anyone like you_.”

Aziraphale would laugh, would kiss Crowley’s cheek with a flash of boldness. “_The feeling is mutual_.”

“Oh, thank you very much! I must have misplaced it last night.”

“You didn’t,” Crowley chortles. “Own up, angel: you left it behind on purpose.”

Aziraphale casts his eyes downwards before letting them flit up, smiling as though holding back a secret. “It was chivalrous of you to return it.”

“It was selfish. Any other bloke’d left it with me, I would’ve kept it for my own.”

“I highly doubt that.”

Something changes in Crowley’s stance, as though Aziraphale had revealed the secret instead, his jaw working itself back and forth as he shoves his sunglasses on from where they’d been hanging in the v of his shirt.

“I’m not nice!” he hisses, though it sounds more like a plea to Aziraphale. “I’d do you a greater favor staying away from you.”

“No, you’d do me a greater favor by coming in for a cup of tea,” he quips, his heart racing even faster when he realizes that Crowley is locking the Bentley rather than getting back inside it. Aziraphale affects a sigh, his smile returning. “I get so terribly lonely after closing, and those parties next door get so rowdy…”

“Who’s to say I’m not like that? Some ne’er-do-well? I could be about to rob you blind.”

Aziraphale gestures towards the door, shivering as Crowley’s shoulder brushes against his.

“That’s a chance I suppose I am willing to take.”


	3. Chapter 3

_London, Nine Years Prior_

“Are you lost, too?” the man asks, a smile captivating the small part of Aziraphale not already stunned in place by his eyes. They remind him of nothing less than the cobalt violet used to illustrate the medieval texts he’s paid a dozen entrance fees to see behind glass. To be so close to such an inimitable color—combined with the cold, it is all Aziraphale can do to breathe.

“No,” he eventually manages. “I’ve—I’ve been here before. Just once.”

_It’s not so bad, in the right company._

The man is still smiling, the sheer _hope_ in his expression nearly too much for Aziraphale to bear. 

“I’m not here for what they’re selling under the table,” his voice is low, brushing against Aziraphale’s ear. “But we don’t have many options, do we? Men who—“ he cuts himself off, looking at Aziraphale to complete his sentence.

Aziraphale’s lips twitch in a quick, uncertain smile. “Who are of a _certain persuasion_. No, you’re right.”

Letting out a chuckle, the man extends his gloved hand. “I’m Gabriel Cielo.”

“Ezra Fell. Please, call me Aziraphale.”

“Aziraphale,” Gabriel repeats, his grip good-natured, easily overtaking Aziraphale’s own. “Aziraphale. I like it! Now, what do you say to a proper dinner?”

The suggestion makes Aziraphale laugh, giddy with possibility. “I don’t know any establishments that are open this late. Unless you’d like to try a chip shop?”

Gabriel shudders. “A man like you shouldn’t settle for that. What do you say to tomorrow night instead? Here, write it on the back of my card.” 

_“You deserve better than me. Scrawny fucking lorry driver’s not your speed, angel.”_

Aziraphale takes the card and pen that Gabriel offers, writing his name and the address of the bookshop beneath the printed phone number. _Did Crowley ever see my handwriting?_

“I’ll pick you up at eight sharp. In the evening, that is—I know you use that funny time system here.”

Aziraphale finds himself smiling at the absurdity of this thrilling American man, who takes the card back and shakes Aziraphale’s hand once more.

“You’re a ray of sunshine in all of this. I’m glad I decided to venture out tonight.”

There is no pause before Aziraphale answers. “As am I.”

+++

Aziraphale is used to being ignored. 

Well, “prioritized among other important relationships”, as he prefers to think of it. Gabriel is a busy man, and Aziraphale should be as well. However, he never has been able to lose himself in his work, to feel a purpose greater than pleasing Gabriel, despite the nature of the foundation. He spends his days composing emails that he won’t recall the subject of when they are replied to, corresponding with donors whose names run together until Aziraphale has to re-write the cards he’s addressed to them. Only reading dulls the ache of Gabriel’s absence once Aziraphale has hurried out of his office at exactly 5:00 PM. Coupled with a glass of wine once he’s finished selecting a little pick-me-up to be delivered with same-day shipping, he feels the world go soft around the edges until he reprimands himself for thinking his life necessitates escapism.

However, Aziraphale is not used to being ignored by _Crowley_, and so he storms between him and the counter just as the worker has turned away to fill his order.

“I did not come all the way from Boston to be brushed aside, Crowley! What do you think you’re doing?”

Crowley crosses his arms, re-adjusting his sunglasses. “Ordering you chips and a damn cup of tea. Proper meal later, after I sober up more and you get out of whatever that suit is. Nearly makes me miss all the plaid.”

“_Tartan_,” Aziraphale snaps, though it has none of his previous frustration and quite a bit more relief. “And what’s wrong with this suit? Gabriel and I chose it together!”

_“Blue or lilac for the lining? No more beige—it makes you look like a sack of oatmeal.”_

Crowley hisses, waving away Aziraphale’s attempt to pay for the food. “There’s sick on your collar. You’ve lost weight, too. Bastard probably has you on that shake diet that put Ligur in the hospital last month. I nearly put Hastur in there next to him, what with the way he was carrying on about it.”

Aziraphale frowns, though he takes the chips, tea, and bottle of water from Crowley without a second thought. They return to the bench, where Crowley awkwardly pushes the bouquet of lilies towards him. 

“For you. Once your hands aren’t full of chips.”

“Thank you,” Aziraphale replies with a gratitude he feels towards Crowley’s actions more than the flowers tucked prettily in their wrapping. He takes a quick sip of tea before, too exhausted for shame, demolishing the chips.

Crowley does not bother to hide his amusement. “Once you’re done with those, you should probably call your husband. Tell him you’re in London, I haven’t kidnapped you, all of that.”

“I didn’t come here to speak to Gabriel!” Aziraphale replies once only a few straggling chips remain. He pats his mouth with a napkin before returning to his indignation. “I came here to speak to you! What were you thinking—tossing yourself off a bridge?”

Crowley groans, cracking the water bottle open and handing it to Aziraphale. “Drink that and then we’ll leave. Hell of a time you’re going to have until you sleep that flight off.”

Aziraphale takes a long, steadying drink that empties half the bottle. “It’s just that! I flew from Boston to make sure you weren’t about to commit suicide, Crowley! How can you be so nonchalant about all of this? So blasé?”

“Thesaurus now, are you? I was drunk, angel.”

Crowley stands up, wiping at the right side of his face. The action draws attention to a squiggling tattoo beneath his sideburn. The ink is worn, etched so deeply into the pores that Aziraphale struggles to recall what Crowley’s face had looked like without it. Before Aziraphale can do more than toss his trash in the bin, however, Crowley has started walking away from him again.

Aziraphale lets out a huff of breath that he would prefer to think was from frustration rather than difficulty at keeping pace. “That’s not an explanation! And what in Heaven’s name is on your face?”

Crowley’s stride picks up as they reach the car park. “Long story. You’ll meet him later.”

_Him_. The word settles poorly in Aziraphale’s stomach alongside the chips and water. The tea in his hand and the briefcase in his arm become heavy, and it is all he can do to avoid being hit by a car passing in front of him.

Crowley’s shout of anger at the offending car startles Aziraphale enough to reach Crowley and the Bentley, though he finds himself frozen once more at the thought of what he is about to do.

“Get in the car.”

Aziraphale pauses, watching Crowley from across the hood. He stares into the darkened glass where he knows Crowley’s pupils hide, his mouth quivering.

“Angel,” Crowley drawls, removing his sunglasses. “Get. In. The. Car.”

“Fine!” Aziraphale shouts, slamming the door for emphasis, managing to not spill a drop of tea.

Crowley mutters, turning on the car and merging almost lazily with the line of traffic out of the car park. Aziraphale settles his briefcase and the flowers at his feet and allows himself another sip of tea to steady his nerves. This caution is a good sign, surely—the caution of a man who values his life. Perhaps “he” and Crowley had had a tussle, and they made up in the time it took Aziraphale to arrive. Crowley’s words must have been the whim of a lonely, drunk man, and how many breakroom stories from the interns did one need to overhear to realize that?

Aziraphale’s concentration is broken by Crowley drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. “Not sure how long it takes to get back to the flat from here. Wasn’t quite sober driving here to get you, if I’m being honest.”

“That’s fine,” Aziraphale replies, wincing when Crowley veers left, speeding up until Aziraphale is very aware of his stomach contents and his own mortality.

_Perhaps some things never change_, Aziraphale thinks, giving Crowley a tight smile. _“He” must be a bit of a speed demon himself, then—a motorcyclist, perhaps?_

Crowley’s silence does nothing to contradict Aziraphale’s realization that he is unwelcome. _And won’t Gabriel be even more pleased, once I explain that I chased a former lover halfway across the world because he had a drunken spat with a man he loved enough to tattoo his face for? What in Heaven’s name was I thinking?_

“Music?”

The familiar chill has settled into Aziraphale’s chest, shooting through his arms and legs until he nearly drops his cup. 

“No, thank you.” 

It is several more minutes until Aziraphale speaks again after a particularly sharp turn. “Crowley?” he murmurs, his skin almost stinging with sweat as it collects on his forehead and behind his neck.

“Mm?”

“Pull over, please—ah!”

Before Aziraphale can explain himself, the Bentley has swerved across two lanes of traffic.

“Bullocks to you too!” Crowley yells at the ensuing honking, gliding into the impossibly narrow shoulder of the road.

Aziraphale closes his eyes, opening them again once he trusts his stomach. He bends forward, feeling the rush of the wind and passing cars as Crowley rolls down the windows. 

“What time is it?” he asks after a moment, his eyes still focusing on his shoes, the lilies blurring at the edge of his vision.

“Nearly midnight,” Crowley answers, his posture relaxing. “You okay? Should’ve bought a sandwich or something instead—my fault, angel. Probably would be sick myself if I ate airport chips before getting onto the M25.”

“Yes—yes, I’m alright. I just need a moment.”

Crowley nods. “Tell me when you’re ready. Can’t promise I’ll slow down when we get back on that thing, but I’ll pull over again if you need it. No hurry.”

  
“_‘Pull over, please,’_” Aziraphale hears Gabriel mock, and he curls further inwards, poorly stifling a cry.

“Hey, what’s wrong?” Crowley asks, reaching for Aziraphale’s handkerchief to hand to him. 

“You can drive now, Crowley,” Aziraphale replies as sharply as he can, watching Crowley’s hand retract back to the steering wheel.

“No, it can wait. Tell me what’s got you all upset.”

Aziraphale leans against the door as he sits upright, bracing himself. “Please, just drive.”

+++

A sleek London loft is not the place one would expect to be greeted by a meter-long black python’s indifferent, unwavering stare from beside a monstera plant.

“Crowley! What is that creature?”

Crowley grimaces. “Told you you’d meet him, angel.”

“‘_Him_’? That’s _‘him’_? That’s a wild animal, Crowley! Can’t you be arrested for having something like this?”

The look on Crowley’s face is enough to make Aziraphale change his tune as quickly as possible. He takes a step forward, trying not to fall backwards over himself when the snake raises its _(his)_ head. 

“Well, does he have a name, at least?”

Crowley winces, moving towards the snake with outstretched hands. “It’s, uh,” he starts, mumbling something unintelligible. “Eh.”

“Come again?”

“’S Janthony.”

_"Janthony?"_

“Won him in a poker game a few years ago,” Crowley mutters, running a hand through his hair. “Really, uh, drunk when I named him. Ligur made it stick, the bastard, so he’s Janthony.”

Janthony lowers his head, slithering halfheartedly away from Crowley’s grasp.

“Shouldn’t have let him roam around, but he likes the plants. I’ll put him back in the atrium. Can get out the travel tank if he’ll scare you on the way to the loo later.”

Aziraphale gives Janthony a cautious smile and is rewarded by a flick of his tongue. “No, no. It’s his home as much as it is yours. I’m a guest.”

Crowley rocks back on his heels, fidgeting with his pockets. His eyes remain on Janthony. “Yeah, a guest.”

The moment grows long, though whether due to an uncooperative snake or the tension building behind his forehead, Aziraphale cannot say. When Crowley’s head does snap back towards him, however, Aziraphale is nearly relieved by the wide, bitter smile crossing his lips. 

“Wait—that business with the tattoo, back at the airport. You thought I meant a lover?” He overpronounces the last word, punctuating it with a swipe of his tongue. 

Aziraphale’s relief is short-lived. “No, of course not! Besides, what you’ve done in the past eleven years is hardly my business, so if you had, I would have been pleased!”

“You did!” Crowley counters, a smug look on his face. “Still can tell when you’re bluffing. You’re damn cute, but you’re shit at scheming and wiggling out of things. Always were.”

Aziraphale tries to sputter out a rebuttal, though nothing that comes out could really be counted as words, much less a response. He finally settles for watching Crowley crawl towards Janthony, who has retreated back behind the monstera and its compatriots. 

“C’mere, Janthony. Come on, come to daddy. That’s it, yeah. You’re the only bloke in my life, aren't you?”

There is a tenderness in Crowley’s voice that startles Aziraphale nearly as much as Janthony himself did. Coupled with the sense that he is watching something that no one else has, Aziraphale edges towards the hall. “Well, I’ll be in the guest room, then. I think I see it—the one with the tank, yes?”

Crowley re-emerges from behind the plants victorious, a snake slung over one shoulder. “It’s meant to be an atrium, but it’ll do. C’mon, I’ll settle you both in.”

Without hesitation, Aziraphale follows Crowley once more.

+++

Gabriel does not interrupt Sandalphon as he recites what he’s learned of Aziraphale’s journey over the past eight hours. Instead, he nods, frowns, and clasps his hands against the desk. Despite the mess of it all, Sandalphon is proud of him.

“And that’s what I’ve been able to gather. With the evidence presented, I have no reason to doubt her and her sources.”

After a long, aggressive exhale, Gabriel speaks. “So you’re telling me he got a phone call on that relic in his office, hailed a cab, and then flew to London?”

“Yes—somehow, that’s exactly what he did. The driver I spoke to contacted the lounge steward, who told her that Aziraphale dropped his ticket after an argument with some young woman. They let him board with her ticket—shameful, really.”

Sandalphon pours them both a glass of scotch before he continues, handing his phone to Gabriel. “Here, she sent a picture of the one he left behind.”

Gabriel tilts the phone nearly upside-down, as though the angle itself were the inexplicable part of the scenario. “Aziraphale? _Aziraphale_-Aziraphale? He can’t even walk to Whole Foods alone!”

Sandalphon feigns a sigh, steadying the phone in Gabriel’s hands and swiping to the next image. “Yes. And that’s not all. The lounge steward alerted the flight attendant mid-flight, and they managed to follow Aziraphale once he disembarked. They took these photos of him and a man waiting for him by the baggage claim.”

Gabriel rises, his face impassive as he knocks the phone to the floor. “He’s been kidnapped. That’s the guy who drove us to the airport this morning in London.”

“You recognize him?”

“I just told you—that’s the driver from the airport!” Gabriel yells, tugging his jacket back on. “He has the same gang tattoo—it was a snake! Christ, he’s really gone and gotten himself kidnapped!”

Sandalphon rushes over, blocking Gabriel from the door. 

“No, he hasn’t. Gabriel, look at this next one, see? And then this one. Flowers. No kidnapper brings their victim flowers and buys them chips and tea.”

Gabriel paces back to his desk, downing his scotch in one go before circling the room. “So he left me for some London crack dealer who’s probably got more STDs than brain cells. Shit! I need to go to the hospital and get tested—you too.” 

Sandalphon returns to his chair, forcing down his own panic beneath his disgust. “Sit down and think this through. For Arch’s sake, if nothing else. Your company is relying on you to handle this properly.”

Gabriel turns to him, letting himself slide backwards against the wall onto the floor. “Raphael,” he stammers. “Raphael, I can’t deal with this alone.” 

Sandalphon swallows, walking towards Gabriel until he is kneeling across from him. He takes his hands into his own and Gabriel is in his arms before he realizes it.

_“Raphael, he’s dying. Help me, please. I can’t do this alone.”_

Shuddering, Gabriel finally pulls free from Sandalphon after several long minutes, though he remains on the floor. “I’m calling Michael. She’s better with the London people—unless you want to keep this quiet and do it?”

Sandalphon smiles, running his hand through Gabriel’s hair. “Of course I will. Now go run that energy off and we’ll figure it all out—who this man is and what’s happened. A payout, I’m thinking?”

Gabriel looks out over Sandalphon’s shoulder towards the treadmill. “Sure. Just get him back here.”

+++

_London, Nine Years Prior_

The cab ride is silent, though Aziraphale’s chest still burns as brightly with hope as it has since Gabriel shook his hand last night. He looks over to him, those eyes staring straight ahead, his legs carefully far from Aziraphale’s own. However, when the warmth of the restaurant itself fails to draw Gabriel into conversation, the chill finally catches on the nape of Aziraphale’s bare neck, scrubbed clean and vulnerable. 

“So, what brings you to London?” Aziraphale asks as soon as they are seated, his eyes widening at the prices marked beside each drink and dish. 

Gabriel sets his menu down. “I’m here on business. My father recently died, and I’m looking for a London location for his company. My company, now. Arch—have you heard of it?”

Aziraphale has not. “My condolences,” he murmurs once he’s said as much, staring again into those near-ethereal eyes, matched perfectly by the amethysts glinting in his watch. 

With a shiver, Aziraphale hears Crowley’s final words to him.

_"Find a classy type. Man who can take care of you, love you proper. Do it for my sake, because I bloody well can’t."_

“Don’t be,” Gabriel replies, fully aware of Aziraphale’s gawking if the smile spreading across his lips isn’t simply for the water now placed in front of them. “London’s quite the charming place. Real quaint.”

“I meant about your father,” Aziraphale tries again, gently. “He must have loved you deeply to entrust you with his life’s work.”

The waitress stands at the ready, perfectly impassive. Gabriel speaks without taking his eyes off of Aziraphale. “The chateaubriand. For him as well—it’s for two. And champagne.”

Aziraphale nods, smiling at the waitress. “Yes, that’s perfect.”

“Right away, sir.”

“What you said about my father,” Gabriel begins once she’s left. He blinks once and then twice, his smile falling. “He worked hard, and he made me into a hard worker. Taught me what matters in life.”

Aziraphale sips his water. “The good sorts of things, I hope. Love, learning, kindness towards others.”

“Family, Aziraphale. A good man shouldn’t go through life without family. Not even ones like us.”

Aziraphale’s lips purse. “I should hope not.”

“Lot of them use it as an excuse. They think being like, well, _us_ means that they can do whatever they want with no responsibilities. Run around like teenagers until they drop dead from an overdose or some guy knifes them. You’ve seen it, I’m sure.”

_“Started at 20, stopped five years later. Hated doing it, if you can believe me. Dagon was the one who got me off it—bet you can believe me on that one, though.”_

“I understand what you speak of.”

Gabriel leans forward slightly, his eyes locking upon Aziraphale’s. “I’m not looking for one of those. I told you last night—I don’t want a lifestyle type.”

Aziraphale is too shocked to take offense. “Nor do I. I—I want love. I’m quite simple, when it comes down to it. I have my uncle’s bookshop, and I enjoy reading, of course. I have since I was a child—my mother and I would spend entire days at the library, cozied up together with our books. She passed away when I was fifteen, and I went to live with my uncle, who I inherited the shop from.” He closes his eyes as grasps his water again, keeping them downcast. “Running it keeps me busy, of course, but I don’t know how much longer I can live alone. Not after—it hasn’t been easy for me, these past few years.”

Not once during Aziraphale’s babbling does Gabriel do more than blink and breathe. His attention is unwavering, complete, as though gauging Aziraphale’s sincerity in some mathematical calculation.

“How long will you be in London for?” Aziraphale prompts too sharply once their drinks arrive.

Gabriel sighs, and something within Aziraphale stirs. There’s vulnerability in it—the same kind he’s felt since the silence of the cab. _He’s nervous too_. 

“I’ll be here for two weeks. My intentions are to court you in that time.”

_Court_. The word brings an undignified giggle to Aziraphale’s lips that spreads to Gabriel’s own.

Gabriel swallows, his jaw tightening. There is hope in his eyes. “Sandalphon told me that looking back won’t bring him back, and he was closer to my father than anyone. I think he’s right.”

Aziraphale’s cheeks are hot, yet the center of his chest is cold, anxious beneath the thrilling prospect of Gabriel that nothing seems to diminish. He lifts the glass of champagne, answering before he takes a sip.

“I agree. And as to your question, yes. I would like that very much.”


End file.
